


Delegation

by Skud



Series: Hypothesis [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Character, Authority Figures, Community: kink_bingo, D/s, Disabled Character, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I would have been mortified, but I realised that Lestrade didn't have the faintest idea what had just happened. I suppose he thought Holmes was simply being high-handed and rude, as he so often was, and under the circumstances I was hardly going to correct the misapprehension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delegation

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink bingo "authority figures" square.

Although I have written many accounts of Holmes's cases, I have chosen not to publish a number of them for reasons of discretion. Some of them, as I've mentioned before, could have toppled European governments. Others have points of interest (as Holmes would put it) that are of a purely personal nature. The Adventure of the Two Publicans is one such case.

It had been about a month since Holmes had discovered my secret: that I became painfully, embarrassingly aroused whenever he gave me orders -- which he did very often. This response had come upon me slowly, building quite naturally upon the attraction to his person which I had felt since our first meeting. I thought I had done quite well at hiding it, but Holmes, I'm afraid to say, can always tell what I'm thinking, and it was not long before he confronted me with it. I am glad to report that he didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, in the weeks that followed he had taken considerable pleasure in ordering me around, and I had taken considerable pleasure in letting him.

It was a foggy November morning, and we had not had a case in weeks. Holmes paced about the flat, scraped at his violin, and made a desultory attempt at mixing up some of his foul-smelling chemicals before pushing the glassware and papers aside in frustration.

"Anything wrong?" I asked mildly, from my seat by the fire.

"Nothing you could fix," he replied, without turning around.

"I should like to try."

He sat for a moment, apparently staring at the chemical chart on the wall in front of him, then said, "Take off all your clothes."

It wasn't as ridiculous a demand as it sounded; he had made similar requests on several occasions since we had reached our understanding. I would have been delighted to comply in any case, but I will admit I was doubly pleased to be able to distract his mind from the boredom and melancholy that beset him between cases.

I started to remove my tie and unbutton my cuffs. He rose from his chemical-stained desk and crossed the room, then turned the key in the door, drew the curtains shut, and took a seat in the basket chair in the middle of the room, from which he watched me disrobe. Before too long I had made a neat pile of clothes beside my own chair, and was standing at ease in the middle of the rug, as naked as the day I was born.

He gestured to me, and I walked over to his chair. I had no idea what he would ask, and I didn't much care: I would do as he said no matter what. A few weeks ago, I would have expected him to request some kind of sexual service. I had been quite prepared for that sort of thing -- to tell the truth, I had thought of little else, and would have welcomed it wholeheartedly -- but in fact it never came. Strange as it seemed, he was either completely uninterested, or had a will of steel: instead of asking me to bend over for him, or to frig him, or to use my mouth, he had only ever had me perform mundane tasks or pleasure myself. It was the same this time. He took my hand and, in a thoroughly methodical, business-like fashion, used his tongue to wet my palm and fingers. When he was quite done, he told me to take myself in hand and stroke my prick while he watched.

I will never understand how he could seem so cold, so distant, so lacking in human feeling while making such a deeply personal request, but it was that dispassionate tone in his voice, stating with absolute certainty what I would do, that invariably led me to obey his command. I instantly wrapped my hand around my penis, and proceeded to demonstrate a procedure from which no amount of admonition during my boyhood had managed to dissuade me.

He rested his chin on his hand and watched me. "Very good," he said, as I varied my stroke, first tugging firmly at my prick then rubbing my palm over the head of it. It always amazed me to realise that he enjoyed watching me -- that he appreciated my self-manipulation from a purely aesthetic viewpoint. I had become used to thinking of my body as scarred and wasted from illness, but I suppose I was not such a wreck as I imagined myself, since his expression as he gazed upon me was like the one he had when listening to fine music: attentive, appreciative, and so very focussed that it was like being an ant under a magnifying glass.

I was in no hurry, and neither was he, so I drew it out for as long as I could, slowing myself and drawing back from the cusp of my climax several times, enjoying the glint in his eye and the quirk of his lips as I did so. He knew what I was about, make no mistake, and when I fixed my gaze on him and showed him my determination to finish the job, he inclined his head by the slightest degree to indicate his assent.

I was at the very point of completion when he said "Stop!" I froze, gritting my teeth, and released the grip on my prick with an effort of will. It stood proud and frustrated in front of me.

"Bastard," I said with feeling, and Holmes smiled.

Suddenly the tension in my leg, which I had been ignoring, flamed into a cramp. I staggered, and Holmes was there in a moment, offering me his arm. I waved him off, and lunged instead for the back of my chair, and for my cane, which I had left leaning against it.

"It's all right," I said.

He nodded, taking me at my word. "Dress yourself whenever you're ready," he said. And with that he turned away and started rummaging through a pile of newspapers on the table. I don't know whether he meant to offer me a degree of privacy, or whether his attention had simply shifted to something else. It didn't matter in any case -- now I had my cane, I was just standing and breathing, trying to calm myself, trying to bring myself back from the precipice. He'd led me to the edge then left me there, knowing that it would drive me almost mad with longing. He knew it, and I knew it, and yet I knew that I had to play the game, put my trousers back on, and get on with the day. Neither of us would say a word about it, until at some later time -- _ye know neither the day nor the hour_, I thought, randomly, blasphemously -- he would decide to finish the business.

I managed to get my trousers buttoned over my slowly-diminishing erection, and settled back in my chair with the book I had been reading, trying my best to act as if nothing had happened. I was still there some time later when we heard a knock downstairs, and Holmes sprang up to unlock the door to our own room, having forgotten to do so earlier.

Inspector Lestrade entered, bringing with him a breath of the cold damp London air from outside. "I thought this one might be up your alley, Mr Holmes," he said.

"Oh, yes?" Holmes was at his most languid, though I could see (even if Lestrade could not) that he was making an effort to conceal his interest.

"It's got my boys stumped, and that's the truth. Take a look at this." He handed over a sheet of paper, folded in four. It was a report describing a violent robbery. A man of business by the name of Harding, working late in his office in the City, had been brutally attacked, knocked unconscious, and his papers ransacked. The charlady had found him and called for the police. He had woken briefly, declared that his attacker was a certain Nathaniel Cousins, publican of the Swan and Hare at the end of the street, then lapsed once more into unconsciousness. Cousins had been arrested on the strength of Harding's accusation, but vehemently denied having anything to do with it.

"If Harding doesn't come round, it'll be murder," concluded Lestrade. "The problem is, there are two dozen people prepared to swear that Cousins was at the Swan and Hare all night. It was a wet night, too. If he'd gone out he'd have come back soaked, and someone would have noticed. I thought maybe Harding was a bit confused," Lestrade said, gesturing to indicate a head injury, "but one of the clerks downstairs saw Cousins leaving Harding's office and confirmed it."

"What do you think, Watson?" asked Holmes. "Can we fit this into our busy schedule?"

"I should think so," I replied.

"Very well. Lestrade," he said, with a slight bow, "we are at your service. Lead on!"

Harding's office, just off Leadenhall Street, was up three flights of stairs. The door was open, and we found two police constables already within. They were sorting through stacks of papers and ledgers. Holmes ignored them and looked around the room, taking in the coat-rack, the faded rug, and the two small windows. He put his hands in his pockets and looked contemplative.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said. "I think I had better have a word with Cousins."

"He's in custody," said Lestrade.

"Is he?" replied Holmes. "Watson, stay here. I'll be back shortly."

"But --" I protested.

He raised an eyebrow, and damn him, I knew exactly what he meant by it. "Do what you're told, old chap," he said, his voice deceptively mild. "Lestrade, I leave him in your care. You might as well put him to work -- I'm sure he'll do whatever you ask him to." He flashed a quick smile at me, and walked out.

I would have been mortified, but I realised that Lestrade didn't have the faintest idea what had just happened. I suppose he thought Holmes was simply being high-handed and rude, as he so often was, and under the circumstances I was hardly going to correct the misapprehension.

"Well then, Doctor," said Lestrade. "Why don't you start on those ledgers? The sooner we start, the sooner we'll be done."

I sat down behind the desk, only too glad to be able to hide the growing evidence of my discomfiture. It was slowly dawning on me that not only was I hopelessly besotted with Holmes, not only would I fulfil any whim he cared to express, but that he knew me to be so totally at his command that he could delegate his authority and walk away, knowing that I would do his bidding even in his absence. Worse: when Lestrade gave me instructions regarding Harding's business records, I found myself responding as if Holmes himself were telling me what to do. I ducked my head and concentrated on the ledger before me, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't notice the warmth that suffused my countenance.

It was slow work, especially since my concentration kept wandering. I don't know how many discrepancies in the figures I overlooked; I kept thinking of Holmes, out somewhere in London enjoying the thought of the predicament he'd left me in, while I was bottled up in that little office with Lestrade and two other policemen, thinking of Holmes's enjoyment, and of my own enjoyment at being the cause of it. It was a circular train of thought, and one ill-suited to the job of poring over accounts.

"Would you pass me those papers, Doctor," said Lestrade, gesturing at a pile by my right hand. I felt a burst of ridiculous pleasure as I handed them to him. I tried to ignore it, but I'm afraid that the state Holmes had left me in earlier in the day made it impossible. I tried to tell myself that if I didn't pull myself together I'd soon find myself arrested for indecency, but I heard Holmes's voice in my head, mocking Lestrade for his poor observation skills. If I had managed to conceal my attraction and arousal from Holmes over a period of months then surely Lestrade would not notice anything in a few short hours. Nevertheless, those few hours, in a small room with three of Scotland Yard's finest, seemed nearly endless.

We were slowly coming to the end of the ledgers and to the bottom of the pot of tea that Lestrade had sent for, when I heard Holmes's voice and the clatter of feet coming up the stairs. I laid down my notebook and pen and looked up expectantly. A strange man came through the door: a slightly shabby specimen with ill-cut grey hair, whiskers to match, and a waistcoat of a particularly revolting shade of mustard-yellow. His hands were behind his back -- tied, I realised, as Holmes entered close on his heels, pushing the stranger into the room as he did so.

"Cousins," said Lestrade in surprise. "I thought he was --"

"In custody. Yes. Nathaniel Cousins is presently under lock and key. Allow me to introduce Mr Joseph Cousins, his twin brother."

"Twins!" I exclaimed. "So that explains how Cousins never left the Swan and Hare."

"Exactly. It was obvious to me from the first that Mr Nathaniel Cousins, who had a score of people to support his alibi, could not be the criminal. Since Harding and the clerk had both identified him, that left only one possibility. A few questions in the vicinity of the Swan and Hare, and I was soon able to track down Mr Joseph Cousins. I leave him in your capable hands." I don't think Lestrade noticed the Holmes's sardonic tone, or if he did, he pretended not to.

Holmes looked my way, taking in the ledgers with an amused glance. "Well, Lestrade, if you're quite done with Doctor Watson, I'll take him off your hands."

I shot him a warning glance. Surely he was being too blatant? But one of the constables had produced a pair of cuffs and Lestrade was putting them on Cousins, and none of them seemed to notice. "He's all yours," Lestrade said.

"Yes," said Holmes, regarding me intently. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to leave as quickly as we could. "I suppose you'll need me to make a statement."

"You can come by the Yard tomorrow, if you like," said Lestrade.

"That would suit me very well indeed. I'm afraid Watson and I have some unfinished business to attend to tonight." And with that he handed me my hat and cane and swept me out the door and down to the hansom-cab he'd kept waiting in the street.

Neither of us spoke a word as the cab rattled through the streets. My prick was hard as a rod but I didn't try to disguise it; instead I sat with my hands resting on my knees and let him see it if he wished to. He neither stared nor avoided staring, but looked at me quite naturally, before looking out the window for a while.

As we turned into Baker Street, he leaned forward and addressed me. "When we reach our rooms," he said, "you may deal with that as quickly as you like. In fact, you will deal with it immediately. And when you are done, you may tell me all about your afternoon with Lestrade."

The door had no sooner closed behind us than I was struggling to rid myself of my coat and do as he told me. He took it from my hands and dropped it on the floor, then stepped towards me, backing me up against the door, not letting me take even a step beyond the threshold. I didn't care. I finished unbuttoning my trousers and pulled my shirt-tails out of the way and grasped myself with my right hand, and Holmes's shoulder with my left, wanting him to stay near. He reached out and clasped my shoulder in return, holding me at arm's length but nonetheless holding me as I spilled over my hand.

He handed me a handkerchief and gently disengaged, giving my hand a squeeze before letting it go. I closed my eyes tight for a moment, then pulled myself together and cleaned myself off.

"So," said Holmes, handing me a drink as I settled into my usual chair. "Is Inspector Lestrade as hard a taskmaster as I spent the afternoon imagining?"

"He was quite mad with power," I replied.

"A sad failing in our police force. I have noticed that a little authority goes straight to their heads." He reached for his pipe and began to fill it. "Do tell me all about it."


End file.
